


And So It Goes

by orphan_account



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 11:44:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2506586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor and Clara have returned to the TARDIS after a particularly trying afternoon, which leads to a confession that inspires them both to come to terms with something they have been denying themselves, and each other. </p><p>Inspired by Billy Joel's song, "And So It Goes."</p>
            </blockquote>





	And So It Goes

 “I’m sorry.”

Clara looked up suddenly, her fingers still exploring the Sonic in her hand. The Doctor was sitting at the top of the stairs, his arms resting on his knees as he observed her. He was slightly disheveled from their trying afternoon, his grey hair ruffled and askew, his now filthy shirt unbuttoned around the collar. He promised a restful trip, as he often did, but it was only true once, on a warm, blue moon.

“Yeah,” Clara responded, placing the Sonic on the TARDIS console. “You say that, but I know you prefer exhilaration over the quiet.”

The Doctor sighed quietly to himself. She was exceptional. Her trainers were coated in wet sand, the cuffs of her jeans wet with salt water, her hair drawn up in large clip. He caught himself admiring the soft hues of brown in her eyes and withdrew his gaze, banishing it to the floor.

“Yes, you’re right. I certainly hoped it wouldn’t be _as_ peaceful as I said,” he added, tracing the fingers of his left hand with his right. “But I wasn’t referring to our afternoon.”

He inhaled deeply and the scent of sweat and grime and lavender infused perfume filled his senses. She inhaled slowly, pondering, and the scent of sweat and grime and the unmistakable hint of old books made her nose crinkle. He throttled a sigh.

“So, what are we talking about, then?”

Silence.

It loomed heavy between them, as it often did. Clara had grown accustomed to the absence of answers and insights and casual conversation. This was not for lack of effort on her part. She tried to coax him from behind his high walls and guarded towers with words of encouragement, but he never emerged. After long moments of nothing he would begin discussing planets long gone and she would quietly accept his defenses and move on.

“Doctor,” Clara called, their eyes meeting as he snapped his attention from the floor to hers. “What are we talking about?”

He wet his lips and locked his fingers together, grasping tight. She was exceptional and in control, her brown eyes soft and unyielding in the light.

“Many things,” he muttered.

She left the console and leaned upon the railing at the foot of the stairs, watching him watch her. She hadn’t noticed the sadness etched deep into the lines of his face until now, but she supposed it was because he didn’t want her to see it until this moment. She felt a familiar ache in her limbs which begged her to move, to provide comfort where it was needed; but he would recoil as if she struck him, and she would suffer over the moment later when she was alone. Clara smothered the ache and waited patiently, internally urging him to go on.

“Since regenerating,” he began, visibly tensing, “I have made mistakes in the hopes of remedying a few I thought I made when I was...someone else.”

He audibly sighed, pressing his hands to his face. Clara always smiled when he did that, she found the flustered habit to be endearing, but when he didn’t remove his hands she placed a foot tentatively on the first step.

“Before I was much warmer, more willing to fall into easy gestures of affection, or appreciation. I thought light of it then. I knew that I looked like someone who could simply fall into pace with you without anyone batting an eye. No glances in confusion as to who I was to you,” his voice was muffled through his weathered hands, but perhaps their presence over his eyes allowed the walls to be scaled. “Others made the mistake of assuming, and though I corrected them, I privately congratulated myself on the ease of the appearance. It felt right, and I believed others seeing it meant that I was not in the wrong.”

Clara did not need a hand in following his words, she understood without being expressly told. She remembered their first conversation in the newly designed TARDIS, the way he spoke of his ‘mistake.’ He was right; he was not her boyfriend. She knew others thought they were together, it was an error easily made, but his confession that _he_ believed it had caught her off guard. At the time of that conversation she was quick to deflect any allusion that she believed it too, but in the absence of his former self’s personality and affections, the feelings she had only deepened. There was a vast emptiness that this new man, who was still his old self in some unseen capacity, refused to fill as she knew only he could.

 “After I became this,” he paused, dragging his hands down from his face, gesturing towards himself with contempt, “I could no longer see myself being for you, who I once thought myself to be. You couldn’t see me, either, and I resigned myself to fall back into a role that I am miscast for.”

The Doctor looked at her properly, and instantly regretted the decision to do so. Her face was soft in concern, her eyes distant in thought, and her silence was tearing away at him. He longed to reach out to her, draw her tight in his arms, where he felt that she belonged. He refused the attention, the touching and the banter, under the impression that it would do nothing to ease the tightness in his chest, slow the constant racing of his hearts. He did not believe that she could see him as he hoped to be, and his refusals only accentuated the pain.         

“I’ve said too much.”

“No,” Clara corrected him quietly, “no, Doctor, up until now you haven’t said enough.”

She wondered on more than one occasion if he ever felt the same way that she did. She thought she saw glimpses of it in his lingering glances and subtle use of language, but she was never sure. She wondered if he understood that her confession of love after their time on the Orient Express was meant for him and not Danny, who returned the gesture without knowing it was not his to return.

“You were going to let me walk away,” Clara realized aloud, a tone of hurt disbelief lining her words, “I was going to leave, and I would have never known any of this.”

“Others have left me before,” he stated dejectedly, faces from long before flashing through his mind. They always left, they all broke his hearts in the end, no matter how deeply he cared. “And so will you soon, I suppose.”

Clara could not help the tears which threatened to run from her eyes, and she drew the corner of her bottom lip between her teeth. She felt it unfair, the way he seemed to decide the future before allowing others to have any input, any influence on the solitude that he gradually forced upon himself. When the first tear drifted along her cheek, she swiped it away angrily. She was frustrated by their circumstance, and by the silence he hid behind which almost saw her walking away from him for good.    

“I never meant to upset you,” The Doctor added hastily, his blue eyes full of warmth and sorrow. They too were shining and threatening to spill, but he forced some semblance of composure as he whispered, “Clara, I am so very, very sorry.”

Wordlessly, she ascended the stairs and sat beside him. The scent of lavender outshone the sweat and grime and he allowed her to carefully take his hand in her own. She leaned into him gently, resting her head against his shoulder with a quiet expulsion of breath. He could feel himself withdrawing in on himself, and he swallowed dryly. The sensation of her fingers tracing over his vastly larger hand was calming, and the tension in his shoulders eased with the distraction.

For a long moment they sat there, both mourning unshed tears, both dwelling on the right words to say. The Doctor tried finding a time since his regeneration that he did not feel as strongly about her as he did, but he consistently came up empty handed. He loved her so deeply that it was engraved in the very essence of him. He was suffocating in her smile and wit, the strength of her sensitivity and command, the roundness of her cheeks and depth of her brown eyes.

“Clara.”

She hummed against his shoulder in response, waiting for what was to come. She was at a loss with him, but whatever it was that brought on this sudden vulnerability, she was thankful for it. Perhaps it was the events of their afternoon which brought on the confession. So rarely did he allow himself to seem so small and uncertain, but she could see this as the result of what happened such a short time ago. Death always dwelled in every corner the Doctor inhabited, but some losses were more painful to live through. Clara learned to press on in the strength that he offered her; but today, it was different. She understood now, more than ever, that she truly, deeply, and irrevocably cared for the man beside her.

The Doctor breathed deeply, deliberately, and spoke with caution.

“I love you, Clara Oswald, I-” he tensed slightly as her fingers stopped tracing his, “I would choose to be with you if the decision were mine to make, but that decision is yours alone.”

Clara shifted until she was looking directly at him, his blue eyes looking at her with a hopeful plea, though he seemed braced for harsh rejection. She wanted to curse him for his fear, chide him for being so clueless; but the best she could manage was a fresh set of tears to rim her eyes.

“Regardless of how you choose, Clara,” he continued softly, gathering her right hand in his and pressing it to his chest, “my hearts are yours to break.”    

There was something in the way he looked at her, the way he held her hand in his, the thrumming of his hearts, rapid in his chest.

She smiled warmly.

There was something in the way she gazed at him, the way she pressed her hand tighter against his chest, the glowing of her eyes, bright with something he longed to recognize in them.  

He allowed the tears to fall freely.

“I love you, Doctor,” Clara whispered, withdrawing her hand from his chest and brushing it along his tear stained cheek. He leaned into the touch, closing his eyes, and she pulled on his leg until he shifted to face her. “And your hearts are safe with me.”

Clara moved her hand from his cheek to the back of his neck and coaxed him forward as she leaned towards him, her lips soft on his cheek. She withdrew her lips but lingered close, gazing into his now open eyes to assess his reaction. He was gaping slightly, his breath locked in his throat, and he looked to her full of wonder.

The Doctor leaned forward slowly, briefly brushing his lips to Clara’s, tentative to push any further. They lingered there, gauging the other, breathing the same air and trembling in anticipation. Clara’s hand was still on the back of his neck, and she ran her fingers along the soft hair at the nape of his neck, encouraging him, assuring him.

Gently, he brought his lips flush to hers, their eyes closing in unison. Her lips were soft and guiding, and he savored the feel of them upon his own. Clara moved her lips first, drawing his lower lip between hers, eliciting a content hum from the Doctor’s throat. He reacted to each of her movements, their breath coming in short, heavy gasps, her hand tightly grasping his hair.

When they finally parted, their mouths red from attention and eyes hooded in arousal, they shared in comfortable silence and contemplation. The Doctor lifted his hands from his lap and placed them around Clara’s waist, guiding her closer to him until she straddled his lap. She blushed as she rested along his thighs, their position on the stairs only comfortable from the attention he paid to their body position. They looked at one another for a long while, admiring the other properly for the first time since he changed.

With gentle fingers he traced the contours of her face, the length of her nose, the curves of her lips, his eyes closed as if he were memorizing each dip and fall of her soft skin. He brought his hands to her hair and undid the clip keeping it back, massaging them through it as she sighed pleasantly. His ministrations were soothing, tender, and she smiled warmly as he withdrew. He placed the pads of his fingers on the pulse of her neck, trailing them along her skin, and he smirked with satisfaction when she swallowed slowly.           

Clara brought her hands to his and put them around her waist before placing hers on his chest. He looked at her quizzically, but she silenced him with a turn of her head, and he complied. He watched with interest as she repeated his actions, her small hands tracing each line by his eyes, smoothing over the slight stubble that was beginning to appear on his chin. She considered him thoughtfully, looked at him with new eyes.

He was handsome and wise, though she particularly loved seeing him with the boyish glint in his eyes when he had something interesting to show her. At this moment they were dark and piercing, admiring and cherishing, and she preferred this look on him.

The Doctor pulled her closer to him, a groan passing through his lips as their chests touched. Clara kissed along his jaw until he lifted a hand to her cheek and tilted her lips to his. It was a slow, passionate kiss, their mouths falling into a familiar rhythm. Clara stifled a moan as he captured her bottom lip between his teeth, and she unconsciously arched against him, his arms pulling her tighter against him.

When she parted her lips and traced his with the tip of her tongue, he responded in full, deepening the kiss eagerly. When their tongues met they both moaned, their hands gripping each other tightly, their breath coming in ragged gasps as she began to move her hips against him.         

“Clara,” he broke the kiss and spoke lowly, his voice deep as he brought his forehead to rest upon hers, his hands holding her hips still. “I think it would be best if we, well, refrained from...”

Clara nodded as his concern registered, her chest rising and falling against his, which rose and fell the same. The Doctor pressed a lingering kiss on her cheek, softening his grip on her waist. When they fully parted she straightened her clothing and pulled her hair back, and he adjusted his own attire until it was more comfortable.  

The Doctor descended the stairs and pressed in coordinates to the TARDIS, jumping slightly when Clara clasped her hand in his own.

“Where are we going?” Clara was chipper as she asked, trying to find the information on the screens around the console.

“I’m taking you home,” The Doctor answered calmly, giving her hand a squeeze, “which was my intent, after we lef-”

“You can’t take me home,” Clara interrupted.

The Doctor turned to look at her as the TARDIS wheezed, and he used his free hand to adjust the console levers to halt their travels.  

“What do you mean, ‘I can’t take you home’?” he asked confusedly, struggling to control the deep adoration he had for her, which shone brightly in his expression.

“You can’t take me home, Doctor,” Clara explained, with a warm smile, “because I’m already here.”


End file.
